When I Confronted My Molester
We all have fantasies of going ballistic on the person who has hurt us terribly. Here's how I showed up when I finally felt ready to reach out to my perpetrator.
Hey!
I invited my molester to my wedding.
I honestly never really thought about that fact until my mother lobbed this spear at me one Christmas: “If it really happened, why would you invite him to your wedding?”
“If it happened.” If it happened? This is upsetting because he has admitted to her it happened, so it’s like she’s doubting my confirmed truth. Which is not just my truth – it’s my suffering. My shame. My worthlessness. But it’s also my strength. My resilience. My courage. It’s complicated, right? I mean…she’s doubting the source of my greatest pain and my greatest power. But her “If it happened” theory also makes me have compassion for her. Despite his admission, she still can’t fully accept what happened. It’s that hard for her. Denial is a powerful antidote to really hard-to-digest feelings. Fuck…I was in denial for many years, hence his presence at my wedding. I can’t blame her for using the same strategy. It fucking works!
But I’m not in denial anymore. It happened. Today, I sit with that reality. And sometimes it still stings. Like, sometimes when I go to the bathroom and lock the door, I remember Little Atoosa who didn’t have that luxury. Growing up, our one functional bathroom didn’t have a functional lock on the door. So if I was in the shower or going to the bathroom when I thought I was alone, and he came home…well…you know how that scene would end. There are a lot of memory land mines at my mother’s house and luckily today when I step on one like the bathroom door, or my mother’s bed where he would violently throw me and do this thing, I can use my self-love tactics (hand on belly or neck). It helps. It’s still a bummer that his gross tongue jammed in my mouth was my first kiss or his man hand on my little hand forcing me to jerk him off was my first intimate experience with a boy. But on the other hand, he never penetrated me with his penis so luckily that was something I could save for someone of my own choosing. You know me: Glass half full, glass half full. 😌 The other silver lining of growing up in a dark, dark place?
I’m not afraid of the fucking dark.
But for a long time I was still terrified. Even though I had had a big career, and of course I was technically “safe,” there was still a young part of me that didn’t feel it. And weirdly that fear served me really well in my career. I was running from my demons and chasing success. The fear also fueled my relationship with my mother: We were so “close.” I put close in quotes because in retrospect, of course, we weren’t close at all. I was just hanging on to her for dear life because her attention was protection. After all, when I was a kid, her (however infrequent) attention meant safety for me. This scared part just clung to my mother and created this façade of a super close mother/daughter connection….that is, until my own daughter, Angelika, was born.
When I held that defenseless baby in my arms, I looked at my mother totally differently. I mean….if one day I found out someone had brutalized that child every fucking day in my home when I was at work? I would annihilate that person and happily go to jail for the rest of my life. The whole idea of “If this happened to you….” Or anything else suggesting that a totally naïve and innocent young child could possibly have wanted to be pinned down and ejaculated on every fucking day after school by a 21-year-old man truly made me furious. I was so angry with my mother and this stark contrast to the pedestal I had previously put her on, really disturbed her. So after a few years of this strained relationship, she finally called my perpetrator and confronted him. Of course, he admitted his actions and apologized to her. But then he proceeded to call me incessantly to apologize to me, too. But I really wasn’t ready for it. I was very triggered and scared by his sudden, aggressive phone campaign and it felt re-traumatizing. I asked him to please stop calling me and I never spoke to him again after that. That was 2011.
The next big shift on my path to recovery happened a few years later. I had certainly looked at this issue in therapy. But as you know, I had some hot mess tendencies that were clearly a manifestation of the abuse (like the infidelity in my marriage). So even though I had a therapist, a lot of time was spent putting out the flames rather than focusing on the original source of the fire. So I started receiving energy work with a Shaman in New York named Elizabeth Clemants. She had just started an organization for survivors of Childhood Sexual Abuse called Hidden Water and she invited me to be a part of the first Green Circle. (Green Circles were for survivors).
When she first told me about it, I was like “Yeah. Sure. Sure. Sure. Sign me up!” I’m one of those people…you know the type. You see someone you haven’t seen for a long time and you’re all ‘Yeah! Definitely! Let’s get together! Can’t wait!” And then you’re like “WTF did I get myself into?” That used to be one of my signature moves and it certainly was the case in this instance.
So the night before the first circle, I was really like “Fuuuuuuuck! I don’t want to sit around a circle and talk about incest with a bunch of strangers!” I mean…NOTHING about this was convenient. It was at school pick up time. By this point I had three children so it would mean I needed a babysitter. It was all the way downtown. All signs were pointing to “No thank you, Ma’am.” I happened to go to a yoga class that evening, and during Savasana, as I was laying there, I said to myself, “God. If I really should go to this thing tomorrow, please send me a sign.” And as far as I was concerned, that was my due diligence. I was done. I decided to email Elizabeth when I got home and bag out of the circle. I felt a great sense of relief as I walked home after class. Like usual, I called my husband, Ari, so he could keep me company on the walk. It was around 9pm and it was pretty quiet on Broadway. Just as I walked by Zabar’s, I noticed one other person walking toward me.
It was my perpetrator.
We made eye contact but I didn’t see a flicker of recognition in his eyes. We walked right by each other. This guy doesn’t live in New York. He doesn’t even live anywhere close to it! I told Ari what had happened and hopped off the phone and called my mom on her mobile. “Is there any reason so-and-so would be in Manhattan,” I asked her. “Oh yes,” she said. They had just left such-and such celebration (ironically a spiritually-based gathering) and he was probably walking back to his hotel. 🤯
I mean…I asked for a sign, right? Bang! There it was. And that circle was a game changer. It blasted my experience with 360 degrees of light. I was able to look to at my experience from every angle and it shifted me in ways I couldn’t have expected.
For starters, I had a very different take on my perpetrator.
I started to remember how terribly his father would physically and emotionally abuse him in front of the whole extended family. I mean this was abject child abuse. No one said anything. No one protected him. The culture of abuse is so ingrained in the family that it was just accepted. We all looked the other way: His kid, his choice of punishment. There were other factors about my perpetrator’s childhood that I won’t identify because I want to protect his privacy but again – these factors also were terrible, terrible things he was subjected to and not protected against. No wonder he was filled with rage. No wonder he took his feelings out on an innocent kid. Essentially the same thing had happened to him. I felt so angry at our family. We were both victims here.
And that’s why I wrote him this letter (snippet, above) in 2018. I asked him to talk about his abuse. I asked him to talk about my abuse. I asked him to shine light on the culture of abuse in our family. I do it all the time. Like when my aunt asks what she can do to help for a kid’s party, I will always say something like, “You can talk about the abuse that’s happened in our family.” I know I annoy them. I know they don’t want to hear this shit. I know they think I should just be glad I have such a great life. (And I do have a great life. And I am so grateful!) But what about my perpetrator? Can you imagine what his life is like? He may have a great life on the outside. Think about me when I was working. That seemed awesome. We’re all good performers. So many people in my family have suffered various forms of abuse. Just because they’re functional and their mouths smile and speak the right script, doesn’t mean they’re truly okay.
And ultimately that’s why I do THIS. I have friends who are horrified by the personal details I share here. (“Why??”) My family members want me to leave the past in the past. And honestly, if I were unhealed from it, I may also want to do that. But I’m actually solid now. I’m strong enough to reach back and help others. And others also includes members of my own family. Others includes my perpetrator. He, too, was once an innocent child who was trespassed on. I don’t believe in vilifying anyone. I only believe in shining the light in the dark. We all deserve to walk in the light.
To that end, I followed up via email (above) in 2019 and invited him to join a Hidden Water Circle (a Purple Circle for Perpetrators). I enlisted my sister and cousin to also ask. We never heard back. I get it. It’s disappointing…but I get it. I remember how resistant I was to going to that first circle. But I will still hold up the light for him and I hope one day, we can sit in circle together. When you’re an abused kid, you sort of get comfortable in the dark. But there’s a whole beautiful world out here. Thanks for being part of that world for me. I, too, had to hide for awhile. But my eyes have adjusted to the light. Thank you for holding space for me today. Thank you for holding space for my family. It is my honor to do the same for you, 24/7, as always at atoosa@atoosa.com
xo, atoosa
The soundtrack of my 🤍🖤❤️ :
Hey Atoosa, I think it would be really helpful if you included content warnings in your posts.
I came across your Substack by way of another newsletter, and like the person who recommended your newsletter, I, too, grew up reading your editor's notes, and was curious to see what you were up to and thinking about these days.
I could tell from the very first posts of your newsletter that you are committed to being as honest as possible. I deeply admire this as someone who has also learned how so much liberation and healing can come from casting light upon the darkest parts of ourselves we have trained into secrecy. I was captivated by your honesty and have spent the last several hours reading all of your posts here.
At the same time, I experienced some very deep triggers reading your posts, and I've been trying to extract myself from a compulsive spiral in which I could not stop myself from reading the rest of your posts, even as I became increasingly distressed. Your reminders to yourself to hold your neck and belly reminded me of gentler coping strategies of my own I've integrated into my toolbox that I ultimately could not reach for before engaging in my compulsion today.
To be clear, I understand it was my choice to read your Substack, and I do feel shame for not slowing down and thinking about how the very direct title of this particular post I'm commenting on should have been enough of a warning for me to consider checking in with myself before making a choice to read on.
I'm still learning to work with the neurodivergent brain I was born with that was further rewired after experiencing my own complex trauma--I hope this is perhaps something you understand and empathize with. As we work on getting back to our factory settings, I ask you to consider adding content warnings to your posts. Content warnings that are written thoughtfully and mindfully have been immensely helpful in reminding me to pause and check in with my body when so many other ways of trying to disrupt my "just muscle through this" programming haven't worked for me. They've helped me work on my own trauma at a healthier and more sustainable pace for my body. With CWs, I've felt better equipped to work on broadening my comfort zone with topics like those you write about than the times I've dived into the waters cold turkey without them.
Thanks for taking the time to read this, and I hope to continue reading your future posts as I am able.